Chapter 1
December 1942
The darkness was thick when Bobby Atherton was awoken by the shifting of the little life inside her. It wasn’t a kick yet – more like the butterflies that went with the anticipation of something pleasant. It reminded Bobby of how she’d felt when she had seen her sweetheart Charlie, now her husband, striding towards her during their courtship.
The baby had proven as good as an alarm since he’d started moving, always waking his mother shortly before the clock rang to rouse her for work. As she snuggled close to Charlie, Bobby wondered if their child would always be so punctual in his timekeeping.
Charlie was murmuring fitfully while he slept. Bobby had grown accustomed to the sound, and no longer tried to wake him from the nightmare. Dr Minchin, who had been treating Charlie for neurasthenia since he’d been invalided out of the RAF a month ago, had warned Bobby not to wake her husband unless he showed signs of extreme distress. This, the doctor said, was how Charlie’s brain was dealing with the things that had happened to him as a bomber pilot. As upsetting as it might be to witness, Bobby must let sleep, the great healer, take its natural course.
The doctor was right: it was upsetting to witness. Bobby had grown up with a father whose mind had been disordered by war and thought she knew all that it had to show her, but every mind was different. Her father she could soothe with prayer or drink, but with Charlie she felt so powerless. If he suffered a nervous attack whilst awake, she could comfort him. But when thehorrors came in his sleep… every night Bobby had to watch him relive terrible experiences in his dreams, unable to offer relief.
Charlie rarely woke himself with crying out as Bobby’s father did, but he tossed and flailed, and mumbled the names of friends he had lost, and sobbed softly in a way piteous to see. For all that the doctor said he needed this fitful sleep, Charlie often awoke more exhausted than when he had gone to bed. But when Bobby asked if he could remember his dreams, he always told her he couldn’t.
The right sleeve of his pyjama shirt had rolled up, and Bobby ran her fingers along his exposed arm. The skin from wrist to shoulder was mottled with cordite burns – a stark reminder of Charlie’s dramatic final mission, which had so nearly cost him his life.
She tried to make out what he was muttering. It sounded strangely melodic.
More than melodic, in fact. Was he… singing?
She laughed softly. He was! Bless the boy, he was singing a jolly little song in his sleep.
The sound of her laughter woke Charlie, who tensed, then relaxed when he realised he was in her arms.
‘Sorry,’ Bobby whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’
Charlie rolled over to plant a kiss on her lips. ‘Did I wakeyou?’
‘No, your wicked offspring did. He’s dancing a foxtrot in my belly this morning.’
‘Too fond of a good time, that boy.’
‘Then he obviously takes after his father,’ Bobby said, returning the kiss.
‘What were you giggling about?’ He rested one hand on her burgeoning stomach. ‘Was naughty Marmaduke tickling you?’
Marmaduke was the temporary name they had bestowed on the baby, until his true sex – and hopefully, true name – became apparent.
Bobby smiled. ‘I was laughing at you, daft lad. Did you know you were singing?’
‘Was I? What was I singing?’
‘It sounded like’ – she let out a snort – ‘I swear, it sounded like “Do You Know the Muffin Man?”’
‘Gosh, that’s right,’ Charlie said, laughing too. ‘I was dreaming I was in our mess at Binbrook. The lads used to sing it as a dare, balancing a pint of wallop on their heads while they walked from one end of the hut to the other.’
Bobby smiled, pleased to hear that happier memories of the RAF sometimes inspired his dreams.
‘I remember O’Rourke tripping over his big feet and landing head first in Forrester’s lap, beer and all.’ Charlie laughed, but it faded away in a sigh. ‘Both gone now. Them and so many others.’
Bobby held him for a moment before she reached for the lamp.
‘You might as well go back to sleep,’ she said. ‘I can light the fire, then it’ll have the house warm for when you get up.’
‘No, I’ll do it.’ Charlie eased himself into a sitting position. ‘Bad enough you have to go out to work. At least let me manage the house until I’m back in a job. You shouldn’t be exerting yourself.’
‘Honestly, darling, it’s all right. It’s Saturday, don’t forget. It’s only a half day so I’m hardly going to wear myself out doing a few chores before work. I juggled my job and keeping house for my dad long enough, didn’t I?’
‘Not with Marmaduke to weigh you down.’
